Guild (1)
Mercenaries huddled in the corner, gambling away their time. These were low-tier sellswords, the kind who scraped by hauling goods for merchants in the market.
The bustling market street should have been alive with folks buying oil jars, keeping everyone busy as usual. But only a handful had been called to work; the rest killed time with dice and cards, twiddling their thumbs.
"No damn jobs anywhere."
"Might have to head back to the war front at this rate."
Grousing laced with frustration from the mercenaries. The culprit? The Uranus House's monopoly on oil.
"Fine, they sell the oil—whatever. But delivering it right to people's doorsteps? What are we supposed to eat?"
At one man's complaint, the others paused their games and nodded in agreement. Still, it was all talk; no one made a real move.
"Not like there's anything we can do about it."
"Yeah. Might as well go straight to the Uranus House and ask if they've got work."
Rogerius, the legendary mercenary. A barbarian from far beyond civilization, he'd caught the emperor's eye and rocketed up the ranks. To these sellswords, he was a living myth.
"Heard he started a mercenary guild."
One piped up, and another chimed in. "Yeah, a buddy from Eteria told me. Said Rogerius just set it up."
"A mercenary guild? Like a merchants' guild?"
"Nah, nothing like handing out missions. Sounds like some kind of investment firm. Join up, and you get a cut of the profits from your stake—no work required."
The questioner's eyes bulged. "Wait, so money rolls in without lifting a finger?"
"Damn right. They funded it with loot left over from sacking Ohrid. Everyone's got a little equity, and the dividends? Pretty sweet."
"How sweet we talking?"
"Don't freak out—20 trimissis."
"What?"
"For real? We bust our asses a whole month for that kinda coin, and they're getting it as pocket change?!"
War wasn't an everyday gig, especially for these odd-job grunts. No steady pay meant taking whatever came—hauling packs, shifting crates, bandit hunts for patrols. Averaged out to about 20 silver pieces a month. Hearing they pocketed that without breaking a sweat? Shock city.
"Plus, the guild handles all the Uranus oil hauls now. Word is they pull in around 50 trimissis monthly."
"Gods above..."
"Two solidus gold coins every month?"
"And not even risky war stuff..."
"On top of that, guild members get one meal a day during shifts."
"Meals too?"
"I'm over here wondering how to scrape dinner tonight."
Jobs with chow were rare as hen's teeth. Only elite central troops like the Basilike Eteria got pay and grub. No employer fed temp hires like these mercs.
Steady pay, free eats. Regret filled the listeners' eyes.
Then one nearby blurted his gripe. "They've got us banned from hauling scraps at the big houses too. Look at us."
One merc shot to his feet at the lament. "What's up, Tatikios?"
"Gonna see if I can join that mercenary guild."
He bolted for Uranus lands. The others watched, then ditched their games to trail him.
On the road back from seeing the emperor, Rogerius pondered the mountain of paperwork awaiting at home.
But...
"Why... are there so many people?"
Too rough around the edges for oil-hauling laborers. Hardened faces screamed mercenary. They milled at the manor gate.
"Assassins after me?"
Made sense. He'd pissed off the Mavrozomis House and half the nobility lately. They'd want him gone.
"This is bad..."
From ancient Rome to the Eastern Empire now, nobles, politicians, even emperors fell to killers' blades.
Such thoughts swirled as a familiar figure appeared at the gate: Alberto.
His squire spotted him and waved. That signal meant no threat. These weren't killers.
"Welcome back, my lord."
"Thanks. But why are all these mercenaries crowding the entrance?"
"Well..."
Job-hunters, mostly day-labor drudges. They knew swords for war but scraped by on odd jobs in peacetime.
Anyway, these mercs had come because the guild's delivery gigs tempted them.
"They want delivery work?"
Rogerius asked, and a man who looked like their spokesman stepped forward.
"Yes, excellency."
A merc who knew noble etiquette. Captains who dealt direct with lords picked up the basics.
"You speak for them?"
"Tatikios, at your service."
Tatikios. Could this be that guy—the one who'd hold off the First Crusaders? Fifty years too early for that crusade. This young Tatikios might not be the legend... or maybe his kin.
To test, Rogerius probed. "You handle protocol well. Served a noble house before?"
"Yes. I've served the Komnenos family."
History said Ioannis, son of Manuel Erotikos, once enslaved the famous Tatikios. Serving Komnenos now? Likely this was the future general's father.
"Still in their employ?"
"No. Saracen by birth, captured in war, served as their slave. Paid my ransom, freed now—free man."
Byzantine custom: POWs slaved till ransom cleared, then house retainer or free. Tough for most slaves, but Tatikios had the chops to earn his way out.
"From Komnenos stock. Why not stay under their banner instead of ours?"
"Grateful—they care for my son now. Don't want to burden them more."
In history, Tatikios grew tight with future emperor Alexios I from boyhood. Prediction confirmed: father of the general.
"I see. So you want work with us—with the guild?"
"Yes. Oil merchants vanished from market; our gigs dried up."
Not outright blame, but guilt pricked Rogerius. He'd crushed the merchants, killing their livelihoods.
No obligation to fix it. But chasing them off? That'd breed enemies.
He'd smeared the merchant guild to keep mercs in line. Harsh rejection now could backfire.
Here they came, volunteering under his thumb. Perfect chance for control—no reason to refuse.
"The mess was merchants' doing, but you innocents suffered. I feel some responsibility."
Murmurs rippled through the mercs. Tatikios blinked, stunned.
"So I'll take you into the guild. Those who want in, raise your hands."
Hesitant glances. Tatikios raised his first; the rest followed.
"All want guild work?"
"Yes," Tatikios spoke for them.
"Good. Big influx means rescheduling shifts. Return tomorrow morning."
Nods of understanding. They dispersed in clusters.
Alberto approached as they vanished. "My lord, taking on so many—is that wise?"
Worried about payroll. Factory deals meant incentives for the staff; costs were climbing. Natural concern.
"Turning them away would've made controlling mercs harder down the line."
"True, but..."
"Not just that. It's profitable for us too."
Alberto looked baffled. Rogerius began explaining modern delivery services, slow and simple.